Place his pale signet on her brow,
And chill her heart with fear;
No more he'd stand beside her bed,—
Bathe her parched lips, and aching head,
And strive her mind to cheer.
She'll range the paths where they have strayed,
And wander through the silent shade,
And ask, "is brother here?"
She'll view the grave, and that will say
There's naught within but mould'ring clay,